Red Fields
by OughtaKnowBetter
Summary: Complete story! SG-1 and a couple of Tok'ra! Bonus: a Readers Challenge
1. Default Chapter

Red Fields

Disclaimer: no rights; never had 'em, never will.

Reader's Challenge: There are twelve references to long gone television series. Can you find them all? Answers in the next chapter.

General Hammond never liked it when Colonel O'Neill got that particular expression on his face. It was the same expression that he used whenever he knew that he was about to put one over on the general. It was the same expression that said O'Neill was about to get his way, and that if the general knew what was good for him, he'd play along.

            Tarnation, but O'Neill usually turned up being right. Whatever plot he had in that pointy little head of his would be the one to get carried out. And save the world. Sometimes the world would be one other than Earth, but that was splitting hairs on a jackrabbit. O'Neill liked to pretend to be as dense as a lump of coal in a field of diamonds, but that was all hogwash. Hammond wasn't taken in.

            But he could pretend to be. O'Neill wasn't the only one who could turn in an Oscar-winning performance now and then. General Hammond hadn't made general on the strength of his good looks alone.

            "Yes, sir," O'Neill said, rocking nonchalantly back and forth on his heels, standing in front of Hammond's paper-cluttered desk. "I'm not so certain that SG-Mac is mission-ready, sir. They, ah, ran into a little trouble yesterday."

            Hammond leaned back in his chair, suppressing a groan. He fixed O'Neill with a beady eye that had been known to turn strong sergeants into dirty dishwater. "Care to enlighten me, Colonel O'Neill? SG-9 looked perfectly fine to me when they left the base last evening."

            "Well, sir, it seems as though they decided on a little fun the last night before going on a mission, sir. Last chance, and all that."

            So many 'sirs'. O'Neill had to have had a hand in this mess somewhere. "Go on."

            "Captain McIntire was the lucky one. Seems that stock split he was talking about?"

            "I remember," Hammond returned evenly. "He's been playing the stock market for some time now."

            "Well, sir, the market sat up and took notice. He's now a millionaire. He won't be re-enlisting. And Captain MacMillan…"

            "I'm listening."

            "Got into a fight."

            "That doesn't sound like MacMillan. Even-tempered man, not given to flying off the handle like some colonels I know. Did he at least win? After all, the man is over six foot tall. He's big enough to give Teal'c a run for the money."

            O'Neill winced dramatically. Hammond could see it coming. "No, sir. He ran into a little bit of a thing named Sally as he was coming out of the closet."

            Hammond sighed. "And MacNeil? Again?"

            "Yes, sir. The bald-headed man with the lollipop. MacNeil never stood a chance. Never did, never will."

            "Wasn't McLeod with him? I told him never to leave MacNeil alone with that Greek."

            "Yes, sir, but there were women present. Ladies. Lots of them."

            "Humph." Hammond didn't understand it. His wife of forty-four years had tried to explain it to him once, something about 'bedroom eyes', and Hammond had promptly tuned her out. He didn't understand quantum physics either, but that didn't stop him from using the results. "So you're telling me that SG-9," and he carefully didn't use the popular nickname 'SG-Mac', "will be a no show for this mission?"

            "Yes, sir." O'Neill looked excessively innocent. "Sir, SG-1 is on base. I could have them ready to go in fifteen."

            SG-1 had been homebound for two weeks, Hammond knew. They had toted Carter back on a stretcher, and resulting stay in Frasier's infirmary had caused them to get kicked off the roster for a mission until recently. Unfortunately for O'Neill's frustration with the enforced inactivity, SG-9 had come up first for the next mission. So O'Neill was ready to do whatever was necessary to go off-world. Just to get the heebie-jeebies out. Hammond wondered how O'Neill had managed to get the entire SG-Mac team into trouble, and decided he'd better not ask. There were some things that he was better off not knowing.

            Of course, there were things that Colonel O'Neill was likewise better off not knowing, certainly not until his team was on the platform and ready to plunge through the Stargate. 'Into the wild blue toilet flush' as O'Neill had been heard to say. Hammond suppressed the smile that wanted to stretch itself across his lips, and nodded at O'Neill. Two could play at this game. "Very well, colonel. Assemble your team. You have a go. Don't be late," he added. "I'll get the briefings ready for you while you and your team kit up. There's a meeting on the other side, and tardiness will not be appreciated. Dismissed." And the general hustled himself out of the room ahead of the colonel's bewildered, "Dismissed?" and the colonel's suspicion that he might, just might, have walked himself and his team into a trap.

*          *          *

            "Dismissed?" O'Neill was still muttering to himself. "Dismissed? What am I missing?"

            Teal'c cocked his head at the colonel, surveying him with the impassivity of a man who had long ago come to terms with the fact that the world is a very unfair place. "I suspect, Colonel O'Neill, that you are missing the briefing. I too feel strangely unprepared for this mission." He adjusted the strap of his pack, settling it more evenly across his broad shoulders, and hefted his staff weapon. "This is most unlike General Hammond. Have you done something to displease him, that he treats you in this fashion?"

            "I don't think so," O'Neill said slowly, his mind going over last night, and two nights ago in the commissary, and four days ago when Frasier kicked him out of the infirmary, and… he stopped there. "I've been as good as gold."

            Carter broke into a coughing fit, interrupting her final buckling on of her own pack. She'd been in the infirmary, watching every shenanigan that O'Neill was putting over Janet Frasier. And grinning.

            O'Neill eyed her coldly. "What?"

            "Nothing, sir."

            Time to change the topic of O'Neill in trouble to someone else in trouble. He picked on an easy target. "Where's Daniel?"

            "Here. Yo." Dr. Daniel Jackson came stumbling in through the door, backpack still open with paraphernalia dripping out through the unzippered ends. He hurried to buckle his gun holster securely around his thigh, hopping in his haste to get to the Stargate platform.

            "You're late!" O'Neill barked. Anything to get the attention off himself. He looked upward to the glass plate behind which Hammond and saluted. "SG-1 present and ready to embark, sir."

            "Very good, Colonel," Hammond returned. "Corporal Agarn, the dossiers, if you please?"

            "Yes, sir." The short little corporal saluted briskly and snatched up the files to deliver them to SG-1 down below in the Gate room. O'Neill all but grabbed them from the man's hand, trying to open them and pass out the duplicates at the same time.

            "Have a good trip, people," Hammond called out as the Stargate flared suddenly into action. There was no time.

            "Hey, wait," O'Neill objected. "What's in this file?"

            "Hustle it up, colonel," Hammond directed through the mike. "Your meeting is scheduled to begin in four minutes. Let's not keep your host waiting."

*          *          *

            "I owe him for this," O'Neill muttered under his breath. Only Teal'c could hear him, and carefully declined to respond. "I don't know how he did this to me, but I owe him a big one. And I swear I will pay him back. Even if he is a general." He pasted a big smile on his face, one that fooled everyone present except his team. And since there was only one other person in the vicinity, his percentages weren't doing so hot. In fact, the only thing hotter was the weather on this desert—and deserted—planet. O'Neill pulled off his cap and wiped his forehead, waving ever-so-gaily at the one other person. "So glad to be here. Glad to see you. What's new?"

            "Colonel O'Neill." The humanoid being came toward the group, and only the oddness of the voice betrayed her as something other than human. "Welcome to the Tok'ra outpost of Twin Peaks. I am Devora, leader of this mission. It is your team that General Hammond sent to aid us?"

            Was it his imagination, or was there a hint of dismay in Devora's dulcet tones? Certainly there was nothing to betray what she was feeling in the lines of her body. O'Neill, all-American male, took a moment to appreciate the sylph-slender figure, the golden hair cascading down her back, the limpid green eyes that could easily suck him in.

            Nope. Back to business. Besides, he didn't trust the Tok'ra. No matter how drop dead gorgeous.

            "Yup. That's us, SG-1 at your service. Major Carter, Dr. Jackson, and Teal'c." He introduced the rest of his team. Teal'c inclined his head. "I understand you have a mission that you want help with? A system lord or two taken out, maybe? Blow up a Goa'uld mother ship?"

            Devora looked him with a peculiar expression. "Did not General Hammond tell you of our needs?"

            "Nope. Not really. We're last minute replacements. SG-Mac ran up against some trouble." O'Neill started getting an even worse feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Is that a problem?"

            "No, no," Devora hastened to reassure him. A little too quickly, O'Neill thought. "You will do well. It's just… well, we thought…"

            "Is my father here?" Major Carter broke in, ending the uncomfortable pause.

            Devora grew tight-lipped at the interruption. "You are Selmac's host's daughter?"

            "Samantha Carter. Yes, Jacob Carter is my father. I had hoped to see him," Carter added.

            "He is not with us," Devora said, sweeping her robes up onto her arm. "Perhaps after this mission we can take you to him."

            "Thanks. I'd like that. I don't get to see him enough these days. I'm disappointed that he won't be on this mission."

            "Yes, speaking of which, what is it?" O'Neill asked, the sheaf of mission papers still hot in his hand. "Hate to sound pushy, but having a clue does wonders for my self-esteem. Fill us in?"

            "Certainly." Devora dipped her head briefly, allowing her symbiote to take over. "Greetings, Colonel O'Neill and compatriots. I am Tambori; Devora is my host. It is I who requested the assistance of an SG team, though I must confess that I did not expect one so illustrious as yourselves."

            "Yeah, that's us. Illustrious. What's the mission?"

            "One that you have proven yourselves to be most adept at," Tambori told him.

            Uh-oh. Flattery. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach threatened to become the journey to the center of the earth. Magma core included.

            Tambori kept on. "We are attempting to forge a trading partnership with the people of a planet known as Vanya. They have certain materials that we require, but are reluctant to establish a relationship with us. We have reason to believe that you Tau're will be more successful."

            "Why is that?" Jackson asked. "We look similar; Jacob Carter is human and Selmac took him for a host. Why should we be more successful?"

            "Because you are not joined," Tambori said bluntly. "The Vanyans were invaded many centuries ago by the Goa'uld, and then abandoned when the planet decreased in strategic value. But racial memory persists even today. They do not trust us, even though we are Tok'ra rather than Goa'uld, and I cannot say that I blame them. But we require large supplies of a plant that grows only on that planet, and to get it we must have an accord. Thus, we need you to act as mediators. Will you help us?"

            "That's it?" O'Neill couldn't believe his ears. "No hit and run raids, no blowing things up? Just talking?" He turned to Jackson. "Daniel, this is right up your alley. You could talk day and not break a sweat."

            "Been there, done that," Jackson agreed. "Giving a seminar can be _so_ much fun. They have coffee on Vanya?"

            Devora looked blank. "I haven't asked."

            "Not a problem," Jackson returned. O'Neill knew that it wasn't a problem; he had caught the caffeine-addicted archeologist stuffing a couple pounds of the stuff into his carry-all. Sure, it was freeze-dried, but any port in a storm…

            "Let's hit the road, campers," O'Neill said, enjoying the look of befuddlement on his host's face.

*          *          *

            Nope. No trees. Not this time. No trees, no big honkin' rocks, and, best of all, no one shooting at them from behind the DHD.

            O'Neill grinned. _This_ was a mission. They arrived in a well-furnished, and air-conditioned Stargate terminal with humanoids all around. The whole place looked like Grand Central after a thorough renovation, cleaning, and shooing away of the drug dealers. Lots of gleaming shiny stuff, a few kiosks selling news and breath mints; the whole place looked remarkably welcoming. And, for once, the humanoids weren't aiming guns, staff weapons, or any other presumably lethal toys at him. They even looked happy to see the group emerge from the Stargate. Damn if they didn't have a brass band to welcome the group. 

            And the humanoids looked pretty human. No funny foreheads, no big ears, no outtakes from an under-funded make-up department. Just normal-sized people, meaning O'Neill could look straight in their big brown eyes, straight at their two arms and two legs, wave 'hi' with ten fingers which probably meant ten toes—paradise.

            _Okay, O'Neill, time to get paranoid. It was his stock in trade. This looked too good to be true, so it probably _was_ too good to be true. Had to be a fly in the ointment somewhere. O'Neill resolved to play his hand close to the breast until he'd had a chance to really scope out these guys. After all, they refused to make nice with the Tok'ra, didn't they?_

            Hmm. Maybe they were okay, after all.

            "Welcome to Vanya, Madam Devora. So glad to see that you have returned as you promised. And these are the friends that you said you'd bring with you?" The one who was dressed to the nines offered the greeting, holding his ten-fingered hand up in a universal gesture of welcome. The man wore a long-coated brocade, richly embroidered, and the thing looked heavy and awkward and the man himself overweight and jovial. Clearly not a warrior. _I could take him down in a trice,_ O'Neill thought. _No threat there_. _At least, not physically_.

            "Yes. This is Colonel O'Neill, Major Samantha Carter, Dr. Daniel Jackson, and Teal'c. They are Tau're. And this," Devora turned to complete the introductions, "is Lord Chancellor Pavelor of Vanya."

            Lord Chancellor Pavelor licked his teeth. They really did look pointy and sharp, O'Neill noted. One small difference from humans. O'Neill carefully didn't offer his hand to shake; Daniel had broken him of that habit for other worlds: _Not everyone has our customs, Jack._

            Pavelor also sniffed at O'Neill, widening his nostrils and inhaling. O'Neill was reminded of a pack of dogs, greeting each other by sniffing butts. He truly hoped that he wouldn't be required to do the same thing; it just seemed wrong. _Not on a first date, okay, O'Neill? But a long, slow, anticipatory smile crossed Pavelor's face. "A true pleasure to meet you," he greeted them. "Devora, you were right. I believe they will be delightful." He ushered them off the Stargate platform and headed them toward the outside of the Vanyan Stargate Arrival Terminal. The other Vanyans too smiled and sniffed, showing those same sharp pointy teeth. __Different customs, Jack.__ Don't get paranoid on us. Dogs sniff each other too, and they don't go for each others' throats._

            _Not always._

            Vanya turned out to be a dark and gloomy world to the humans. Carter pointed out that the Vanyan sun was much dimmer than Earth's, providing a red glow instead of the Earth's familiar light, resulting in perpetual night to their human eyes. The Vanyans had much larger pupils to compensate for the lack of light—like an owl, O'Neill observed sagely—and had clearly adapted well to their world. Which made sense, Jackson said, since they'd evolved here. _Well, duh, _Daniel_._

            Here were the trees that O'Neill had missed on first arrival, whizzing by as they sat in an open air vehicle that accommodated the team, the Tok'ra, and the Vanyans. It managed to be quite pleasant. The air had a clean, fresh scent to it, faintly tinged with some spicy herbal aroma from the foliage. O'Neill peered closer: the foliage looked distinctly red, something like a red maple's leaves, instead of a vibrant green color. It just added to the darkness and generalized gloom. There were street lights similar to any city on Earth, but none were turned on, suggesting that this meager pittance of sunshine was all the team was going to get while on Vanya. O'Neill half-wished for some night goggles, so that he had a rat's ass chance to see what was around him. It would make him feel _so_ much more in control.

            Just as well that O'Neill was a night person. All this darkness made him feel right at home. He felt sorry for Carter. She was a lark, up before the crack of dawn and singing so that the roosters would glare at her. This mission would be wearing on her. He chanced a look at her, but his second in command was gawking like a tourist at the scenery, squinting at the dark, peering even more as the scenery changed from suburban banality into a modern, up to date city.

            Their destination was the large museum-like structure in the middle of town; the city hall, Pavelor told them. And that it served several other functions as well, being the meeting place for various dignitaries (of which they were a part) and where re-enactments of bygone days were presented. Sort of a government and theater all rolled into one, O'Neill decided. He could live with that. The building was huge, with massive double doors to lock out the darkness, and cryptic carvings in the dark stone walls. People walked in and out continually, darting intrigued glances at SG-1.

            Dr. Jackson was beside himself with eagerness. O'Neill had to kick him in the ankle to get him to behave, to not go running up the steps of the museum to examine the carvings on the outside gray stone walls, and look at the papers encased in a Lucite-equivalent embedded into a geometric statue standing outside the entranceway.

            "This is fascinating," he exclaimed. Both O'Neill and Carter groaned, recognizing the signs of a full-blown quest for knowledge in progress. They'd be lucky if they were able to drag him away to whatever negotiations the Tok'ra wanted them to participate in. O'Neill and Carter exchanged looks; they'd _better_ be able to drag the archeologist away. He was their talking head, the one who could persuade almost anyone to do almost anything. And if the Tok'ra needed that plant whatever, Jackson was the one to make the deal.

            "C'mon, Daniel," O'Neill said, taking the archeologist none too gently by the arm. "Play time won't be until tonight. Now we have to work. Help the nice Tok'ra."

            "Umm." Jackson could barely drag his gaze away. Didn't make sense to O'Neill, since the creators of these objects of his fascination were standing less than six feet away and could tell him everything O'Neill thought he wanted to know, but O'Neill never pretended to be able to understand Jackson. It was enough that the man himself understood as much as he did. Even if he couldn't always tell the nice colonel what he wanted.

            As they were escorted inside, Devora contrived to walk next to O'Neill. "Colonel O'Neill, that there will be a ceremony that you will be expected to take part in. If you do not acquiesce, then our mission will have failed before it has started. Do you understand?"

            "No," O'Neill hissed back. "Just what is this ceremony that you neglected to tell us about ahead of time? Sacrifice one of us to their gods? Or a minor blood-letting?"

            "A minor blood-letting," Devora responded, relief spreading across her face. "Though I am surprised that you would understand the requirements so quickly. Perhaps you Tau're are not as primitive as I have been led to believe."

            O'Neill stared. "Are you serious? One of us has to stab ourselves in order to be proven worthy to talk to these guys?"

            Devora looked at him. "Again, you misunderstand. Is it deliberate?"

            "I'd get it, if you would just explain clearly for a change. Words of one syllable. Humor me."

            "You will all be required to participate in a minor blood-letting, Colonel O'Neill," Devora lectured coldly. "Just as I was when we first approached the Vanyans." She paused uncomfortably. "We Tok'ra were judged unfit with which to have converse."

            "Oh, you seem to be doing rather well." O'Neill didn't like what he was hearing. "Pavelor is talking to you pretty good."

            "But saying nothing of consequence," Devora retorted. "As I have told you, Colonel O'Neill, they speak to us but will not accede to our wishes. Nor will they trade. We require your intervention. Will you go back on your word at this late date?"

            "I don't recall making any agreement with you beyond going on this mission," O'Neill said. "Details of which, I might add, did not include getting stabbed to death."

            Devora gave a long-suffering sigh, trying to defuse the anger which had arisen. "No one mentioned death, Colonel O'Neill. This blood-letting that I have referred to is nothing more than a sampling of your blood. Your own physician removes more from you when she acquires enough to test for various ailments. Try to behave as a rational being. Calm yourself."

            "I am calm," he snapped back. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

            "I would have, had you not been so eager to move forth. 'Jump down my throat' I believe is the expression you Tau're use."

            Jackson, who had been listening, quickly moved in. "What say we table this discussion, in favor of what the Vanyans have to offer? I for one would like to explore this culture. It's really pretty different from anything we've ever seen, Jack. And, based on what I've seen so far, I think there's a reasonable possibility that we may be able to trade with them just like the Tok'ra, Jack. They have an equivalent level of technology to our own, maybe a little bit more advanced in some areas, a little less in others. I think Sam would welcome an opportunity to look around."

            "_Oh_, yeah!" from a certain major.

            "With a flashlight, you mean," O'Neill grumbled, but it was more for show than anything else, grateful to Jackson for interrupting his argument with Devora. Okay, it wasn't the most graceful way of ending the fight, but it worked, and neither of them lost face to the other. They left it a draw.

            It was difficult to see the interior of the building. Having significantly less need for light than the humans, the Vanyans didn't bother to illuminate the room enough for SG-1 to be able to see. There were a few dim candles here and there, and a spotlight in one upper corner that lit up a bare three feet of ceiling space, but all in all O'Neill felt acutely uncomfortable. He couldn't see what was around him, he couldn't see the way out, and he could tell that there were a bunch of people inside watching them; he could hear them breathing. It made him nervous.

            Pavelor beckoned them to a large dais that, for Vanya, was exceptionally well-lit, motioning for SG-1 to recline on pillows. "Come, come, my friends, and do us the honor of joining us for our ceremony of thanksgiving."

            "We would be honored." Jackson gave a little bow, echoing Pavelor's formalized gestures. "Please tell us what we may do to show our gratitude for your hospitality."

            Pavelor beamed; Jackson had hit the right note. "Come sit beside me, Dr. Jackson. Let us converse." He turned to Devora. "Honored Devora, you may go forth, as you have wished. You have fulfilled this section of our agreement; what you can harvest is yours. These Tau're will remain here with me."

            "Thank you, Lord Chancellor," Devora said gravely. She hurriedly faded into the background; it was the signal she had been waiting for. The sound of a large door's closure, muffled, echoed throughout the cavernous chamber.

            O'Neill watched her disappear, his paranoia jumping to the surface again. He marked the direction in which she had disappeared, sensing more than seeing Teal'c do the same, in case they needed a hasty exit. _Paranoia, O'Neill.__ Really needed? "And she is going where?"_

            Pavelor smiled at him, though with a certain amount of puzzlement. "She goes to harvest some of the plant known as the Ficus. I understand that the Tok'ra require a certain amount of it for their people."

            "The ficus?" Sam screwed up her face in disbelief. "That can't be. I keep one in my home. Large plant, more of a tree than anything else?"

            Pavelor shook his head. "No. Our ficus is small and innocuous, growing low to the ground in the forest. It will take her several days to harvest enough for Tok'ra needs. The flower contains more of the active ingredient, but it is past the time for flowering. A condition for which we on Vanya are grateful, for our common name for it is 'stink-weed.'" He frowned. "I hope she will be able to gather enough. The Tok'ra make excellent trading partners. I should dislike to see the race decimated to extinction by their illness." He frowned again, this time at Teal'c. "You smell wrong. Are you certain you are not a Goa'uld?"

            "I am not," Teal'c returned. He looked uncomfortable on the heavily embroidered pillows; it would be difficult to defend the team from a lounging position, but there was no other way to repose in response to Pavelor's invitation. "I carry a larval Goa'uld within me, but I have not been taken as a host. Nor do I intend to be, Lord Chancellor. I would rather die."

            Pavelor was not persuaded, and the chancellor's eyes grew as pointy as his teeth. "Nevertheless, because of the parasite that you carry, you are not welcome at the ceremony. You will not participate. We will escort you back to the Stargate. You may leave."

            Teal'c blinked.

            "Whoa. Wait a minute," O'Neill objected. "Teal'c's one of us. Granted, he's not human, but—"

            "It is precisely for that reason that he cannot participate," Pavelor said sternly. "He must go."

O'Neill folded his arms. "He goes, so do the rest of us."

"Jack," Jackson said, alarmed. "Maybe there's some room for negotiation here—"

"Nope. We all stay, or we all go." He stared at Pavelor. "Ball's in your court, Lord Chancellor."

Pavelor eyed O'Neill with the same stare that the colonel was favoring the Vanyan with. He came to a decision. "The Jaffa will stand to the side, and not interfere. Anything less, and we shall send all of you back to the planet from which you came. Without the ficus that your friends so desperately need." He folded his own brocade-enclosed arms with the same finality.

            "Jack, I think—" Jackson started to say, but Teal'c stepped in with his inimitable display of imperturbability.

            "This is not a problem, Colonel O'Neill, DanielJackson. As long as I can be present, here in this room, I am satisfied."

            "We can handle that," Jackson said, before O'Neill could object. "Lord Chancellor?"

            "Would the Jaffa not prefer to accompany the Tok'ra? Her task could be accomplished more swiftly if her numbers were doubled."

            "I will remain here," Teal'c declared. _The Tok'ra could fend for herself,_ was the unspoken addendum.

            As an answer, Pavelor extended his arm in an ungracious invitation. He indicated the chair in a dark far corner of the room. It was _very dark._

*          *          *

            The conversation was devoid of anything that anyone could consider trade negotiations, even by Jackson's lenient standards. Dr. Jackson took the lead, charming the Lord Chancellor into telling everything he could about Vanya and its people, while unobtrusively giving the Vanyan information about Earth, its peoples and its customs, trying for the early stages of inter-species rapport. Pavelor responded in kind, the earlier unpleasantness forgotten despite Teal'c's quiet and unseen presence in the corner. Carter sat entranced, listening to any description of Vanyan technology, while O'Neill, still unable to shake his paranoia, searched through Pavelor's words for any hint of threat to Earth. There was none.

            Pavelor fed them well, serving them sumptuous dishes on gilded plates. Even Teal'c, sitting alert in a dark corner of the room, was given his own samples. It was clear that even though Pavelor wouldn't permit the Jaffa to participate, he had no intention of offending any of the SG-1 team by omission. Anything that was given to the other SG-1 team members, Teal'c also received.

            Dr. Jackson couldn't stand the anticipation. "This ceremony, Lord Chancellor, that Devora brought us here to participate in; what is it?"

            Pavelor smiled broadly, showing pointed teeth. "My people, Dr. Jackson, have waited centuries to be able to perform this ritual once again. As no doubt you have observed, we are carnivores." He swept his hand to indicate the dishes that had been served. Jackson nodded slowly; the vast majority demonstrated an animal protein in some form or another, highly seasoned to provide variety. Too, the sharp teeth that every Vanyan displayed looked similar to that of a feline, now that it had been brought to Jackson's attention. "Will you join us?"

            "We would be honored," Jackson said immediately.

            "Daniel." Warningly.

            "It's what we're here for, Jack." Jackson was not to be dissuaded.

            "It is, Colonel O'Neill," Pavelor agreed. "Your Tok'ra friend even now is reaping the fruits of our friendship; she is gathering leaves from the ficus, to cure her people."

            "Whoa, whoa!" Carter heard that part loud and clear. "What's all this about curing? What's wrong with the Tok'ra?"

            "She did not tell you?" Tight-lipped shaking of heads. "The Tok'ra have been afflicted with an illness."

"That's not possible," Carter said flatly. "The Tok'ra don't get sick. The symbiote prevents it."

Pavelor shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps I misunderstood." He beamed. "It is our great joy that our world contains the cure to their ailment, or whatever trouble besets them. In this fashion both of our races may prosper, and now yours as well. Have you not told me, Dr. Jackson, that you too seek to defeat the evil Goa'uld? We would be pleased to share what we have." Pavelor beckoned to others waiting along the outskirts of the room, ready to serve. "Come, let us proceed with the ceremony." He drew Dr. Jackson forth, the archeologist following willingly.

            "Daniel…"

            "It's all right, Jack. This is what we're here to do, remember?"

            The others watched in fascination as Pavelor led Jackson to the far corner of the room, moving closer to peer through the Vanyan gloom. They hadn't been able to see this area, but, once near enough, saw that it was furnished even more ostentatiously than the rest of the hall, with heavy brocade curtains that muffled any sound.

            In the center, on a second raised dais, stood a chair. Not just any chair, but one worthy of the Goa'uld system lords at their most depraved, with ornate carving over every inch, gilded in gold that flashed anemically in the erratic candlelight. The dais itself was covered in a thick rug that glinted with the golden threads that were woven through it, and on top of the rug stood several tufted low benches. Anyone who sat on a bench would be significantly lower than the occupant of the throne-like chair. O'Neill refused to believe that it was coincidence.

            It was in that chair that Pavelor placed Jackson. O'Neill almost objected—there was something about Pavelor's manner that did more than just worry the colonel—but a reassuring nod from Jackson stopped him. _Daniel knows what he's doing. Look at the miracles he done before._ Pavelor's movements were quick and practiced, fitting a high armrest onto the throne and placing Jackson's arm in an outstretched position. It strongly reminded O'Neill of Dr. Frasier's minions preparing to draw blood for whatever test Frasier had in mind.

            Hah. A minor blood-letting, Devora had called it. For once the damned Tok'ra were right. O'Neill let himself relax just a hair. If this was all that the Vanyans wanted, they could have it. Give the Vanyans a sample of blood, Devora gets her leafy green vegetables for the Tok'ra, and Earth has access to a whole new type of technology from a race accustomed to telling the Goa'uld what to do with themselves. Win-win situation.

            A small tray of sterile steel instruments also blinked in the inadequate candlelight, but Pavelor was well-accustomed to the dimness. Licking his lips in eagerness, he picked up a slender tool that looked suspciously sharp. O'Neill winced along with Jackson when Pavelor pierced the skin at Jackson's elbow, blood flowing gently into the waiting cup that Pavelor held there for that purpose. The cup too bore intricate and decorative etching in the same script that Jackson had tried to study outside. Dr. Jackson craned his neck to peer at it through the gloom, hoping to decipher the writing on the fly.

            It took only a few moments for Pavelor to collect his sample. The surge of blood slowed and stopped, clotting taking over to seal the skin from further losses.

            Pavelor swished the blood around in the cup, holding it high so that all could see. O'Neill could almost feel the tension in the other half-seen Vanyans in the room, all covered by gloom and standing among the heavy curtains. All held their collective breath.

            Pavelor raised the cup to his lips, and sipped. The silence was so enormous that O'Neill wanted to cover his ears just to hear his own heartbeat. He sternly commanded his hands to stop shaking; this ghoulish activity was important to the Vanyans, not to him and his team. Nope: important to the Vanyans meant important to Earth, and, by proxy, SG-1. _Think of all the lovely things we can get from them, O'Neill. Stomach, stop quivering in disgust._

            Pavelor shuddered in ecstasy. "It is good!" he cried out.

            A muffled cry of joy echoed his shout. "It is good!" "It is good!"

            Pavelor turned to Colonel O'Neill, tears in his eyes. "Colonel O'Neill, I cannot tell you how long we have waited for this moment! There will be rejoicing across the land!" He tried to get himself under control, and motioned to one of his underlings. "Tell Devora that she may collect all the ficus leaves she desires."

            O'Neill found himself on the Vanyan throne next. He steeled himself, but the shock of the needle entering his vein was less than he had anticipated. Watching someone else always hurt more. But seeing Pavelor cry more tears of joy made it worth it. Devora had been right; what was a minor blood-letting, compared to this? These were a very happy bunch of Vanyans. Crazy, sure, but happy. They'd waited centuries to do this? He wondered why.

            Carter was a different story. No sooner had Pavelor taken a sip from her blood then he spat it out in horror. "You! You carry a parasite! How dare you profane our sacred chair?"

            "Hey, no. Wait a minute!" Carter protested, taken aback at his vehemence. "Pavelor, I'm not a Goa'uld."

            "I taste the taint in your blood! Do not lie to me, Goa'uld! I will kill you where you sit!" Pavelor scrambled awkwardly to his feet. The crowd surged forward, muttering angry epithets.

            "Hold on!" O'Neill jumped up, hand on his handgun. In the background he sensed more than saw or heard Teal'c limber up his staff weapon. "Nobody's killing anybody."

            "Lord Chancellor, Major Carter was once host to a Tok'ra," Jackson inserted hastily. "She's not a Goa'uld. Perhaps you taste that. She is not a Goa'uld," he insisted.

            "The protein markers," Carter put in, eager to smooth things over. "And I sometimes have flashbacks, some of Jolinahr's memories. The protein markers come from a Tok'ra, Lord Chancellor. I'm not a Goa'uld."

            Pavelor stared at her, the first rush of anger fading but the displeasure remaining. "Remove yourself from the throne. You are no longer welcome in our Hall of Ceremonies. Go join the Tok'ra in the fields. Leave."

            "Colonel?" Carter wasn't sure what to do.

            Neither was O'Neill, but he made the decision anyway, praying that it would be the right one. "Go. Hook up with Devora. Teal'c, go with her."

            "Yes, Colonel O'Neill."

            It seemed the right thing to do. Pavelor's black expression cleared.

*          *          *

            Carter had plenty of questions for Devora. "What's going on?"

            Devora stared at her disdainfully. The Tok'ra's basket was only one quarter full of small reddish leaves, some of which looked bug-chewed. A dusky odor wafted in their direction, and Carter wrinkled her nose. She could tell why the Vanyans called it 'stinkweed.' Carter had smelled better things in a pizza parlor trash heap sitting in the sun for two days. "Clarify."

            Carter pointed to Devora's odiferous harvest. "This."

            "I am collecting ficus leaves. I have told you this."

            Teal'c loomed over the women, his presence more menacing than usual in the ever-present Vanyan gloom. "I believe Major Carter is referring to the reason behind your actions. More specifically, the purpose for which you are harvesting these leaves."

            The grass around the trio was long and slender, and comprised of the same reddish tint that the majority of the foliage boasted. Several stalks were all but lethal, drawing blood from tender skin as they walked toward the Tok'ra woman until Carter learned to hide her hands inside her sleeves and let the clothing take the brunt of the assault. Teal'c had confessed earlier in their trek that he longed to burn a swath through the underbrush with his staff weapon. Mindful of their hosts' property and the possibility of starting a brush fire, he had refrained.

            Devora pounced on another small leaf. The plant was low to the ground, and well-hidden. A puff of stench was released in a cloud of spores hidden in the gloom, though noses picked it up immediately. "We Tok'ra need them. As Pavelor has told you."

            "What for, Devora?"

            Devora stared, clearly at war with herself—in more ways than one. A little shudder, and Tambori took control.

            "Devora is reluctant to confide in you, and I understand and respect her desires, but it would be wrong to keep the truth from you." Tambori/Devora turned to Major Carter. "The Tok'ra desperately need this plant."

            "I'd gathered that." Carter was having a tough time keeping herself under control. "What do they need it for? Are they ill, as Pavelor said?"

            "Yes."

            "_How_ ill?" Carter couldn't leave it alone. "I thought the Tok'ra couldn't become ill. The symbiote curing the host body, and all of that. I didn't believe it when Pamelor told us."

            "It puzzles us as well," Tambori confessed, her face set. "This is unique in the history of the Tok'ra. There are those who blame the Goa'uld, that this is a subtle plot to weaken and destroy us, but others disagree. Any ailment that affects us in such a fashion could just as easily infect the Goa'uld themselves. I strongly doubt that any Goa'uld would expose himself to such a danger as this." Another shudder, and Devora once again took control. "It matters not what the cause of the illness is. The important task is that we gather this plant, which will cure us."

            Samantha Carter wasn't finished. "And my father? Selmac?"

            At least Devora didn't make any pretense of hiding the truth. "Gravely ill, I'm sorry to say, Major Carter."

            "And you didn't tell me? I think I have a right to know! He's my father."

            "He specifically asked that you not be told," Devora said. "He did not wish to worry you unduly. I would not have told you if you had not guessed. And it was why I had anticipated another team than yours. Fewer questions would be asked." She bent down to pull another leaf from the soil. "Perhaps you will now join me in my task with greater fervor."

*          *          *

            Seemed like there were a bunch more people around, O'Neill thought. It was hard to tell; these Vanyans obviously couldn't care less about good lighting. He could hear Jackson laughing in the distance, somewhere off behind the gloom. Other people, other Vanyans were laughing too, with an occasional cheer breaking out. Once the ritual was over and Jackson and O'Neill had passed whatever test Pavelor had done by tasting their blood—there were similar Earth customs, Jackson insisted, that honored a slain enemy—the Vanyans had done their best to make the pair feel welcome. Sending Carter and Teal'c away had been the right thing to do. He was starting to like these Vanyans, despite all those pointy little teeth. What the hell, they couldn't help how they evolved. Maybe the Vanyans thought O'Neill's teeth were disgustingly square.

            And there were pretty ones, too, O'Neill decided. These were the first Vanyan women that O'Neill had seen up close and personal. He'd seen a few on the streets as they'd driven in from the Stargate Terminal, but they tended to wear a lot of dark clothing that made them blend in with the gloom. Right now there were three of them clustered around him: a blonde, a brunette, and a red-head. Their names, and let's see if O'Neill could get them straight, were Billie Jo, Bobbie Jo, and Betty Jo. They giggled a lot as they lit candles all around him, circling him like hungry sharks with the same pointy little teeth that all the Vanyans had. O'Neill didn't mind, as long as they kept their mouths shut. Smiles were okay, open grins weren't.

            Pleasant odor that the candles gave off. Kind of flowery. Thick, cloying, flowery, powdery—O'Neill came to the conclusion that the smell was overpowering. It tended to close off whatever senses he had left. He blinked. It was tough; his eyelids didn't want to re-open.

            One of the girls, and he thought it was Billie Jo but couldn't be certain, stroked his neck. He twisted around to see, and another caressed the other side, gently nipping his ear. His head started to spin. He heard Daniel laughing again on the other side of the room, but it wasn't the usual kind of Daniel ha-ha you've-said-something-amusing sort of laugh. It was a Daniel-is-drunk kind, something that O'Neill rarely heard from the archeologist. Jackson simply didn't bother with Friday nights bashes and the like; it took too much time away from the things he considered really fun, like studying moldering old texts. The laugh sent up warning flags.

            "Daniel?" he called, trying to sit up straight and look around. The pillows sank beneath him.

            "Don't bother with him," the blonde said.

            "You're much more interested in us," the brunette cooed.

            The warning flags turned into distress beacons. "Put out the damned candles," O'Neill snapped. "I can't breathe with those things." _They're making my head spin, he wanted to add._

            "The candles are doing just fine," the red-head told him, circling, peering earnestly into his face. _Pretty green eyes_, O'Neill couldn't help thinking. And, _I've got to get out of here! He heaved himself up, finding that his arms and legs had turned to jelly when he wasn't looking. _

Blondie laughed gaily and pushed him back down onto the throne. "This won't hurt a bit," she promised, turning his face away from hers. O'Neill felt hot breath on his neck, and a sudden sharp pain. Then something was trickling out of him, something hot and sticky, with a moist tongue eagerly lapping it up. Terror flooded through him, but he felt too weak to act upon it. Death seemed near.

_What a way to go, thought O'Neill disgustedly. And, as a pleasureable fire enveloped him and destroyed what little will to resist was left, _what a way to go!__

*          *          *

Devora looked at her meager harvest in dismay. She wrinkled her nose, though not over the odor. "We will need much more than this to prepare a curative serum," she told the other two. "We don't have much time left. We must find a way to increase the amount of leaves that we find."

Carter plucked another leaf, and thrust it into the basket. "Why didn't you bring more people? If the Vanyans aren't willing to help, then you needed more bodies to do the hunting for these ficus leaves. You should have assembled a mission team."

Devora didn't meet her eyes. "Not all the Tok'ra believe that my preparation will work. Some have chosen another cure which I believe will bring disaster upon us all."

"Which is?" Carter wasn't finished.

"There is a similar plant, of greater medicinal yield than this ficus, which resides on a Goa'uld-controlled world. A team has been dispatched to retrieve that plant. There is great risk that our agents will be discovered and traced back to the Tok'ra base. The Goa'uld could wipe us out with a single mother ship. It is an unwise plan."

"If this plan is likewise doomed to failure because of insufficient personnel, it is equally unwise," Teal'c pointed out. "Your goal is the curing of the Tok'ra, no matter how that is accomplished. And there have been many incursions by both Tok'ra and Tau're missions against Goa'uld-controlled worlds. You have not demonstrated that the Tok'ra plan is any different than those."

"This is the superior solution!" Devora insisted, turning her back to pluck another half-chewed leaf. "I will be proved right!"

"Only those with little evidence to sustain them must resort to shouts." Teal'c straightened up.

"I am not shouting!"

"Could've fooled me." Carter too straightened up.

"We don't have time for this," Devora snarled. Tambori took over; roughly, to judge by the quality of the shudder. "Please forgive Devora. She, and I, have many comrades who are gravely ill, and it distresses us to know that the cure is limited by our frailties. But she is right; time is of the essence. The Vanyans will only permit us to harvest this plant as long as negotiations continue, and I fear that they may soon be coming to completion. We must hurry."

"That is not a problem," Teal'c said gravely. "In all the years that I have known DanielJackson, an inability to continue a conversation long beyond its natural conclusion had not been a problem from which he suffers. Indeed, others have often come up with devious and intricate methods to cause him to cease talking."

Devora/Tambori stared at the Jaffa for a long moment, then turned away. "Then let us make use of that talent by harvesting while we can."

*          *          *

He wasn't on the throne any longer, he was nestled between several large and comfortable pillows. Jackson thought he remembered sliding bonelessly off the seat, being picked up and carried here.

It really didn't matter. Thought didn't matter. Talking didn't matter. Coffee would be nice, with its comforting caffeine buzz, but relaxing in the hands of those around him would do just fine. Even the sharp little nips at his throat didn't matter, the blood leaking out to be lapped up by the murmuring crowds that jostled each other in an attempt to approach. Like a half-off sale at a back-to-school special, he mused, with himself the most popular size in stone-washed denims.

The candle scent wafted all around him, pleasant and lazy, inducing lethargy though not sleep. He thought he remembered Pavelor chastising someone for drinking too deeply—"let the human recover, Kono, or we shall lose him!"—but that too seemed like a dream.

Jackson was content to lay there, allowing the Vanyans to do they pleased.

*          *          *

It wasn't quite the last thing that Carter expected to see arriving in a meadow on Vanya, but it was close.

Transportation rings swooped down not fifty yards away. Jacob Carter appeared in a flash of light, and the rings removed themselves.

Jacob wasted no time. "Sam! Sam! Are you all right?"

"Dad!" Samantha Carter grinned, dashing over to greet her father. "You're all right! You're alive!"

"Of course I'm alive. Why wouldn't I be? But you! Did they hurt you? Where's Jack and Daniel?" Jacob held her at arm's length, visually examining his only daughter with a worried eye. He rounded on the other Tok'ra. "What the hell did you think you were doing, Devora! You know this planet is off-limits to humans!"

"It was the only way," she replied haughtily. "I needed the Tau're."

"Dad? What's going on?" Sam caught his arm. "What's wrong with this place?"

Jacob started to answer, but Selmac pushed through. "It is good to see you unharmed, Major Carter. When we learned of Devora's actions, Jacob was most distressed. He nearly burned out the engines on our craft to arrive here as quickly as possible."

"Selmac." Teal'c inclined his head in greeting. "It is good to see you well. We were informed that you were ill."

"I was," it was Jacob again, "but not any more. Or, rather, Selmac was. Our people are having a field day trying to figure out how a virus can infect a symbiote. The raid on Barracus worked, Devora. And the base is fine. No thanks to you." 

Selmac pushed in, a clear indication of how upset the Tok'ra symbiote was. "Tambori, you and your host will face the Council for your actions! You were rash and unwise, and you have placed us all at risk. Prepare yourself for departure immediately!"

Jacob took his turn. "Pack up your things, Devora. We're taking these people home. Sam, where's Jack and Daniel?"

"They're back in town, Dad. Dad, what's going on here?" Sam demanded, suddenly worried. "What didn't Devora tell us?"

Jacob turned his attention back to his daughter. "Did Devora tell you what these Vanyans are? Why we don't work with them? Why it's incredibly dangerous for you to be here at all?"

"She said that it was because you're joined beings. That the Vanyans refused to have anything to do with you because you're related to the Goa'uld."

"That's only a small part of the answer, Sam." Jacob threw Devora a dangerously angry look. "The Vanyans don't like us because we Tok'ra don't taste good." At her puzzled look, he continued, "there's something about the symbiote that is unpleasant to the Vanyans. So we have nothing that they can use."

"Blood," Teal'c supplied, suddenly understanding. "They sampled the blood of Colonel O'Neill, Dr. Jackson, and yourself, Major Carter."

"Blood," Jacob confirmed. "And Devora just handed them a couple of living and replenishable kegs. Sam, we have to get Jack and Daniel away from them. I sent my ship away so that the Vanyans wouldn't detect it but it will be back for a rendezvous in twenty-four hours." He gestured to the town less than a mile away. "Let's go."

*          *          *

The museum/town hall had grown a substantial crowd since they'd last seen it. It was still mid-day, which meant the light was as bright as it was going to get, and still Sam and Teal'c were struggling to see more than a few yards in any direction. Sam recognized the encased writings on the outside pedestal that Jackson had wanted to study, and counted some hundred people mobbed at the door, waiting not so patiently to enter.

Sam surveyed the crowd with dismay. "How are we going to get in? There's no way we can take on that many."

"We can leave," Devora suggested. "They're probably already dead. Let's cut our losses. We can take my leaves back to the Tok'ra." She brightened. "We can at least salvage that part of the mission."

Teal'c hefted his omni-present staff weapon purposefully. "I will not leave O'Neill and DanielJackson behind, no matter what the odds."

"There is no mission," Jacob snarled. "There's only a rogue Tok'ra who is going to answer for her crimes. Stop wasting time and think of how to rescue Jack and Daniel."

"There has to be a way," Sam mused, casting about for an answer. She frowned; something came to light. Literally.

"Dad, these Vanyans, they're always in this low level of light, right?"

"That's right, Sam. Where are you going with this?"

"What would happen if they were suddenly exposed to a bright light? Light comparable to what we're all used to at home?" She gestured at the encased writings. The documents inside were lit with low level lighting, more than enough for the Vanyans to appreciate but barely adequate for any human without a flashlight.

Jacob's face lit up. "That's brilliant, Sam! Teal'c, the honors are yours."

The Jaffa frowned. "I do not understand. Was your pun intended?"

Sam grinned infectiously. "Just take out the panel, Teal'c. And shield your eyes."

"Major Carter, if I shield my eyes, I will not be able to aim my staff weapon."

Sam groaned. "Just do it, Teal'c."

Suppressing a sigh—_these Tau're!—_Teal'c pointed his staff weapon at the indicated structure, closing his eyes just prior to firing.

The panel, powered by high voltage electricity, went up in a shower of sparks, turning the surrounding area into a place as bright as Central Park on a muggy August afternoon. The flammables inside turned into a fireworks grand finale, shooting off red, yellow, and green streams of light with accompanying noise loud enough to knock the nearby Vanyans off their feet. For the first time, the group was able to see Vanya clearly, and found that the dim redness of the buildings, so attractive in the low light, was actually a rather dingy white that nobody had bothered to clean. Even the red maple coloring of the nearby foliage turned into a tepid and sickly puce.

Sam had seen cartoons that weren't as well executed. One moment the Vanyan mob was clamoring at the door, the next they were gone in a cloud of dust that sparkled in the leftover flares. Sam could almost see the cartoon lines that would have been drawn to indicate a hasty departure.

Teal'c inclined his head. "Most impressive, Major Carter. You have substantially reduced the opposition without a single fatality."

"Save your congratulations for later," Devora put in, annoyance still showing blatantly. "You still have many obstacles to overcome."

"Either help, or go back to your fields," Jacob said, barely able to restrain his anger. "And I wish you luck in getting through the Vanyan Stargate. _We're taking my shuttle."_

Devora glared. "Thanks to your interference, I shall not be able to complete my task. I won't have enough ficus leaves to produce enough serum. You have ruined my mission."

"Your mission was ruined before it started," Jacob snarled. "There was no need for it, and good people may die because of you!"

"It was necessary that some be sacrificed—"

"Sacrificed!" Teal'c rounded on her. "You had no right to send these Tau're into danger without informing them!"

"And there was no need!" Jacob added. "No one was dying. The symbiotes were healing the hosts just fine. The mission to Barracus succeeded."

"It was all a lie," Sam realized. "Devora, you tricked us into coming here. Why?"

"I needed the ficus," Devora insisted.

"She did," Jacob agreed bitterly, "but not for the reasons she gave you. Devora is involved in research that will allow the Tok'ra to send this virus to the Goa'uld without risk to ourselves. A potion made from the lleaves of the ficus were to be the carrier. The Tok'ra Council had forbidden her to continue."  
            "Didn't do much good, did it?" Sam said bitterly. 

"Apparently not." Selmac's deep voice chimed in, the joined host throwing yet another angry look at the Tok'ra woman.

"The system lords must be stopped." This time it was Tambori who spoke, her eyes flashing and furious. "The Council does not understand the danger—"

"We understand all too well, Tambori," Selmac lashed back. "This host and I have gone on missions, endangered ourselves, for the good of the Tok'ra and our allied worlds. When was the last time you have gone?"

"I'm here now to—"

"This gains us nothing." Teal'c put a stop to the argument. "Our current task is to rescue O'Neill and Jackson. Let us proceed without further delay."

Devora glared at him. "There's a room full of Vanyans in there, who knows how many, and you want to waltz in and remove what may be two dead bodies."

Teal'c's face hardened. "I do not dance." He hefted his staff weapon. "And I will not be delayed further." He mounted the steps to the hall's entrance, both Carters in his wake. Devora considered a moment, even turning to escape to the Stargate, then reconsidered. She followed.

No one noticed their entrance. All the Vanyans were far too busy peering in toward the center of the room, murmuring excitedly. SG-1 halted in the ante-room, peering in through the massive double doors, trying to see through the low Vanyan light. It looked crowded, though none of them could see individual bodies, and none could make out where the missing SG-1 team members were. Teal'c unlimbered his staff weapon, preparing to take out what little light there was in order to engender as much confusion as possible.

Sam stopped him. "Wait. That won't help."

Teal'c lowered the weapon.  His teammate, though not the warrior that Teal'c was, still was a powerful comrade in arms with many superior attributes that had served the team well in the past. He would listen, though this time he could see no immediate advantage. But—he trusted her. "Major Carter, there are no similar pedestals to the one outside that may be turned into flares."

Sam nodded. "But these people are used to dealing with less light than we are. By taking out the lights, we're helping them. And hurting ourselves."

"Then I must eliminate the enemy one by one."

Devora snorted. "There must be a hundred of them in here. One by one?"

"From your lips I hear only delays, no solutions nor plans."

"She's right, Teal'c," Sam said hurriedly. "One by one, they'll gang up on us until they can call for reinforcements."

"We do not have much time, Major Carter. The people outside who were frightened away will undoubtedly do the same."

Jacob noticed that Devora clung to her basket of ficus leaves. It was two-thirds full, and reeking, even to human noses. "Devora, will you get rid of that stuff? It's holding us back, and it's giving me a head-ache."

"No! I've earned it, Jacob. I will not give it up!"

"You will not be permitted to use it," Selmac warned in sepulchral tones. "If you bring it to our base, I will have it confiscated."

"You wouldn't dare! I will bring this issue to Council!"

"I sit on the High Council," Selmac reminded her. "Feel free to bring it to me there."

"No, wait." Sam had an idea. They all looked at her, Devora with apprehension. "Look, I think there may be a way to get Colonel O'Neill and Daniel out of there. Without hurting anyone."

Impossible, said Devora's face, but Teal'c waited impassively for his teammate to come up with yet another miracle.

Sam explained. "These Vanyans are very sensitive to light, to smell, to taste; all the senses that we humans and Tok'ra have, only more so. They could taste the protein markers in my blood, even though the taste must have been very slight,less than one part per million. They knew that Teal'c carried a Goa'uld larva just by sniffing."

Teal'c nodded slowly. "They did. They sniffed us in greeting, much as I have observed the dogs on your world do, Major Carter, though with greater delicacy."

"Where are you going with this, Sam?" Jacob asked.

Her plan hit them all at once. The trio looked at Devora. And at her basket of ficus stinkweeds.

Devora backed off. "Oh, no. Not my ficus! I worked hard for this, Jacob Carter, and I will _not_ give it up!"

*          *          *

"Shut up, or I'll shove this down your throat." Sam had had enough of the Tok'ra woman's whining.

Devora shut up. Sam ground the stench-filled leaves into a reddish slimy mess with her fingers, helping to smear the woman with the stinkweed juices. Jacob and Teal'c performed the same ritual beside them, Jacob coughing as the fumes overpowered even a less sensitive human nose protected by a symbiote. Their skin was turning ruddy, but no one noticed in the low light.

"Jack is going to owe me a big one," Jacob said. None of them added the thought that followed: Jacob could only collect if the colonel was alive to pay off. "Let's go."

They burst into the grand hallway, brandishing weapons that they hoped that they wouldn't need. Teal'c let fly a burst from his staff weapon to the ceiling to both increase the light and visibility and to add to the general terror and confusion.

It worked better than even Sam had hoped. Vanyans fell back, retching and holding their eyes, desperate to get away from the Vanyan equivalent of tear gas. An acetic looking old man, gray hair flowing and mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like "grasshopper" attempted to bat them away with a slow motion spinning side kick. Sam ducked and dumped him down to the floor with a simple sweep. He lay there, trying to catch a breath that wouldn't choke him.

The Vanyans in the back of the hall exited first, hacking and wheezing, escaping the reeking SG-1 and Tok'ra and fleeing into the fresh open air outside. The ones unfortunate to be close to SG-1's passage through the crowd ended up on the floor clutching their bellies and hoping desperately that unconsciousness would be a consequence of the horrible odor that assailed them. By the groans of the others similarly afflicted, that hope was to remain unrealized.

They found O'Neill first by heading for the best lit area of the hall, one nearly dancing with candles enough so that they could almost make out the tableau. O'Neill was sprawled on top of several large pillows, head lolling, both arms held out by two women who appeared to be licking his elbows and a third who held his head away so that she could kiss his neck.

"Colonel O'Neill!" Sam exclaimed.

The colonel didn't move, but the women did, picking their heads up in surprise—with blood at the corners of their mouths. Sam froze in horror; it was one thing to hear about the Vanyans and their bloodthirsty habits. The reality was barbaric. A growl issued forth from the Jaffa.

There was no mistaking the intent of SG-1. They were here to retrieve their own. 

But the women weren't about to give up their prize without a battle. As one, they flew at the four—

—only to clutch their throats is horror as the stench of the ficus assailed them. All three Vanyans dropped to floor, writhing in a futile attempt to breathe, helpless to defend their acquisition against the rightful owners.

Sam went her commanding officer. "Colonel O'Neill! Are you all right?"

"Wha-?"

"He's alive," she reported, relief in her voice. "Sir, can you stand?"

"Gaah. Carter, you need a shower."

"And well, I perceive." Teal'c hoisted the colonel up to unsteady feet, holding him there as O'Neill tried to find his bearings.

O'Neill blinked, looking around him blearily, aware that something not too wholesome was occurring. "Teal'c?"

"Yes, Colonel O'Neill?"

"Was I—?"

"Were you what, Colonel O'Neill?"

"With…them." O'Neill gestured at the three women still gasping on the floor, attempting to inhale and actually make use of the meager oxygen. "Did I… with them?"

"I do not believe so. I believe they had another type of action in mind."

"Oh. Good. I think." O'Neill turned back around and nearly fell flat on his face.

Jacob Carter caught him. "Sam, Teal'c, go find Daniel."

"Jacob," O'Neill greeted him cheerily. "I'm still hallucinating, so it must not yet be time for the hangover. You're not really here, are you? What the hell did I drink, and why didn't it taste better?"

Jacob hauled the colonel's arm over his shoulders. "C'mon, Jack. It's time to go home."

"Sure." Jack paused, and looked Jacob straight in the eye. "You know, for a hallucination, you sure stink."

*          *          *

"Yes, Dr. Jackson, I am indeed proscribing this world." Hammond left no doubt in anyone's mind that that was exactly what was to occur.

Jackson wasn't anyone, and surprisingly for the exceptional linguist that he was, occasionally had trouble understanding English. "Let's not be too hasty, General. They're not really bad people on Vanya. Think of the things we could learn from them."

"Think of the blood we could give them," O'Neill put in waspishly. His head pounded, and he wondered why Jackson's didn't. Or was it because the archeologist was just ignoring it? He re-settled his aching head in his hands, wishing he could go home and throw up.

"All we need is adequate protection," Jackson insisted.

Jacob Carter, having brought SG-1 back to Earth, had joined them in the debriefing after a session in medical. Frasier had considered some blood transfusions, but in the end settled for both men getting a couple bottles of the doctor's finest saline along with a steak and a handful of vitamins. The Tok'ra snickered.

"What's so funny?" Jackson asked peevishly. "Just because the Tok'ra couldn't make friends with them—"

"It's not that, Daniel," Jacob grinned. "Just listen to yourself. What do you mean by 'adequate protection'?"

Sam too was having a hard time keeping a straight face. "Pointy teeth. Live in the dark. Drink blood."

"Extremely sensitive to an odor reminiscent of garlic," Teal'c added, pointing to the sole remaining ficus leaf specimen that had survived the mission to be toted home. Immediately upon arrival back on Earth both Carters had cleaned out the local video rental store: _Dracula, Queen of the Damned_, and the ever popular _Love at First Bite_, insisting that this was a significant gap in Teal'c's enculturation. "Most educational," Teal'c had pronounced them.

O'Neill leaned back in his chair, ignoring the massive bruise on the side of his neck. Jackson sported a similar one, and both bruises looked disgracefully like the mother of all hickies.

"Daniel, did you really think we were going to get through this mission with nobody mentioning the word 'vampire'?"


	2. Answers to Readers Challenge

Answers to the Reader's Challenge:

1. MacIntyre is Captain John MacIntyre from _MASH_ 2. MacMillan from _MacMillan and Wife_, and wife's name is Sally 3. MacNeil is Captain MacNeil from _Kojak_ 4. Yup, the lollipop-toting bald-headed Greek is _Kojak himself. 5. MacLeod with the bedroom eyes is the _Highlander_, of course! 6. Corporal Agarn served in "_F Troop_" __7. __Twin Peaks seemed like a very reasonable place to put the Tok'ra outpost, considering all the strange things that go on there 8. "Ficus" was the first bi-sexual character on Amercan television, on the short-lived SF series called "_Quark_", starring Richard Benjamin. Bonus points if you got this one. 9. Billie Jo, Bobbie Jo, and Betty Jo all lived at __Petticoat Junction 10. Anyone remember Kono, the big Hawaiian detective on __Hawaii Five-O? 11. "the raid on Barracus". Fans of the __A-Team know that B.A.'s last name is Barracus 12. Kwai Chang Caine from _Kung Fu_, and __Kung Fu: the Legend Continues, was called "grasshopper" by his mentor _


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